Marc shuddered with apprehension. Julie would be more than furious; she would be livid. And, worse than that, she would be livid at him! Since the pack of thieves who had taken the things were his guests, the whole thing, therefore, would be all his fault. She would never forgive him.
"We'll have to get them back!" he said.
"I could call the police, sir!"
"No!" Marc fairly yelled. "No, Busby, don't call the police." He frowned concernedly. "Are they all down in the cellar now?"
"Revelling," Busby said hauntedly. "Revelling and shouting and guzzling. I don't think I'd go down there if I were you. It's a regular den of vice."
"Nevertheless," Marc said, "they need a good talking to. It's hardly good manners to accept a man's hospitality and steal his wife's jewels."
"It was probably Floss," Toffee said vengefully. "She's got her eye out for a good thing, all right."
Together, the three of them entered the house, crossed the wide, cool hall at the front, passed through the solarium and kitchen and drew up at the doorway that led down to the cellar. The sound of coarse laughter momentarily halted their steps. From inside his jacket, Busby extracted a revolver.
"Perhaps you should have this, sir," he said. "I keep it for emergencies."
"And this is certainly an emergency," Marc said. Taking the gun, he faced the stairway. "I will speak to them firmly and if that doesn't work, I'll—I'll—"